I’m struggling with what to write this morning. My early-morning brain is bouncing around like a pinball between bumpers. For years now I’ve deliberately carved morning time out of each day for myself. I’ve gotten up an hour before I need to just so that I have a little space. A quiet space. A breathing space. Just for me. For writing. For pondering and wondering. For word games. For whatever I want.
But these days, school spills in. It’s a bit sneaky. I don’t even realize it’s made inroads until suddenly I discover myself thinking about how to manage rug time, what I should do about so-and-so, and how to manage five behavior charts in a room of 16 students…when I started by wondering if there was a poem to midwife out of my thoughts about fall mornings. Or how I might respond to a poetry photo prompt. Sometimes thinking about school is a mental exercise in curiosity and at other times it feels a bit like a spreading stain. An invasive species of thought.
One of my favorite things about my mornings has always been my commute to school. I get to drive along back country roads through farmland and across a scenic river. It never fails to both settle and lift me. This year, unfortunately, there is a massive construction project underway. Four miles of it. I discovered this when driving to school for our first PD days late in August. After sitting for long, long minutes in traffic repeatedly stopped for one-way travel, I quickly realized that I would have to drive the alternative route to school. The one I take when driving conditions are treacherous. The one that takes me onto 75 mph freeway traffic and then over less-than-scenic roads. I still cross the bridge, but somehow I’m not as primed to appreciate its beautiful view.
I didn’t realize was how much I would miss this commute. How much I needed it.
Early this past Saturday morning, I decided to check out how much progress had been made on the road and also visit my beloved scenery. I was surprised to find that even close to sunrise and on a Saturday, there was a flagger in place and the road was reduced to one-way travel for part of my journey. Still, there wasn’t much traffic, and once I was through that, I was able to settle in and enjoy the views.
The scenery did not disappoint.
After considering the pros and cons, I decided I’ll be driving that way again this morning. Even with the potential for delays, it’s 100% worth it.
There once was a woman whose house was home to far more than one mouse Though she bade them to leave they ignored heartfelt pleas, so she had no choice but to de-louse
Bold husband concocted his snares tightly wired and placed with great care Snap! Snap! went the traps and that ended that. New mousies had best be bewares!!
We turned the corner and the activity unfolded before us. Buffed and beautified tractors, decorated trailers and a variety of vehicles lined the street. Costumed people gathered in clusters and one woman practiced pulling a freshly painted metal pig.
“Careful!” someone called out, “It’s still wet under the loins!”
Everyone was getting ready for the annual Bowdoinham Days parade. As we walked past, we waved and called out compliments and greetings. As we passed one festooned “float”, a woman noticed us walking by and said to a nearby child, “Hey, Chase, why don’t you practice throwing them some candy!”
“You want to practice throwing candy at us!? Yes!” I enthused, stopping in my tracks.
Chase leapt into action. He dug his hands into a bucket of candies, then turned and threw a fistful in our direction. I kept my eyes on the trajectory of a golden package of peanut M&Ms and was rewarded as it fell right into my outstretched hand. Yes! I pumped my fist and Chase jumped up and down in delight.
“Thanks!” we called as we continued on our way, heading toward the official parade route.
As we walked, we saw more and more people lining up along the streets. Kids squealed and ran along the sidewalks, jumping up and down in excitement as they greeted their friends. Adults stopped to talk, share their news, and maybe buy a piece of prize-winning pie to support our local school. Everywhere there was such a nice buzz of positive community energy.
Finally, there was a whoop and wail from the escorting police cars, and the parade began. This parade is my favorite thing ever! It’s simply the best. Our town of slightly over 3,000 people has deep agrarian roots and a rich network of active farms. As the tractors trundled down the parade route, they threw some candy, but lots and lots of veggies. This year the choice options were red peppers, carrots and, maybe not so wisely, cherry tomatoes. They also throw marigolds and soon the route was paved with orange petals and flower heads. This year the library stepped up their game and handed out picture books to children. One local farm deviated from the veggie plan and handed out huge glowing sunflowers to spectators. (If you look carefully in the tractor pictures you’ll see flying tomatoes and red peppers!)
And then there are the beloved zucchini races. We weren’t able to stay and see them this year, but stopped by to check out the contestants.
There’s plenty more to do: a chicken run, food trucks, arts and crafts, a fundraising yard sale, lobster crate races, rubber duck racing, live music and fireworks. They were even selling jars of honey harvested from the hives installed outside the local library! It was small town unity and heart on full display, and a most welcome antidote to these divisive times.
Eventually, we walked back up to our home, smiling the whole way, picking up a few lost carrots, and enthusing about what a great morning it had been.
The next evening I made soup with our veggie prizes while the sunflower glowed in my kitchen window.
“What do you want to do on the last weekend before school starts?” Kurt asked me this past Saturday morning.
“I’m not sure,” I said. “Let me think about it.”
This is a tougher question than it may seem. I’ve definitely felt the ratcheting up of tension over the past week–the feeling of the walls closing in and everything funneling inexorably toward the onset of the tyranny of the school year. Did I want to do something big and bold or something low-key and relaxed?
After thinking for a while, I suggested, “Why don’t we get up early tomorrow and go to Morse Mountain?”
“Sure,” Kurt said, “Why don’t we take a picnic?”
“Perfect!” I said.
Saturday was busy with errands and some family visits, but we tucked in time to swing by the store and pick up some goodies for our upcoming picnic: baguette, goat cheese, apples, grapes, etc. I couldn’t remember the last time I had even been on a picnic, and my anticipation was mounting.
“This is such a great idea!” I said more than once to Kurt.
On Sunday we were packed and out the door by shortly after 8 am. Morse Mountain is one of our favorite places along the Maine coast. You hike about two miles in and are then rewarded with an amazing stretch of pristine beach. The distance to the beach, along with limited parking, means that it is never crowded and it is always beautiful.
We set off cheerfully, picnic foods and blanket stowed in our backpacks. We hiked up and down through forest and past a few marshy areas. We detoured up for a scenic view from the summit, and then traveled back down toward the beach.
Finally, the trail opened up from forest to oceanside. As soon as I set foot on the beach, I knew we’d done the right thing. It felt as if my whole being simply expanded along with the view. It was the perfect place to be. An antidote to all things closed-in and constricting.
“This,” I said to Kurt, gesturing at the scene before us. “This is what I’m going to picture in the coming weeks and months, whenever I feel like I’m starting to frazzle and unravel.”
We set off, walking barefoot along the shore. A huge raft of some kind of ducks was floating along, a dark mass of bodies, moving parallel to the shore. There had to be hundreds of them! Next, we were delighted to see dozens of seal heads popping in and out of the water. The sun was warm on our skin, but there was a hint of chill in the breeze. The skies were cobalt blue, and the small bits and bobs abandoned by the receding tide yielded lots of treasures, and created fascinating patterns. Every so often we stopped to pick up sand dollars (mostly in pieces) and shells. We let the sound of the surf and our splashing feet wash over us.
Over and over again I thought, “Yes, this is where I need to be right now.”
After a long hunger-ripening walk, we stopped to spread our blanket and set up our picnic. Reclining on the sand, we stared at the ocean and chatted about this and that. Mostly we just soaked up the sun and the view.
“It’s going to be hard to leave,” I finally said, after we were done eating.
“Yeah,” Kurt agreed.
Eventually, heaving a few sighs, we packed up. Then, after one long backward glance at the ocean, we turned toward the trailhead and the two-mile return hike.
I’ve been overly focused on my eyes lately. On seeing. On not seeing.
Late this past April my retina tore. Surgery followed and my vision was regained–mostly. My right pupil remains dilated, which is normal–up to a point. It may still recover. It may not. I’m nearing the border between optimism and realism on that front.
The retinal surgery is traumatic to the eye, and kickstarts cataract growth. While planning for that next surgery to my right eye, the doctor discovered I was overachieving–having naturally created another less severe but surgery-qualifying cataract in my left eye.
The right eye surgery wasn’t debatable, and I had that completed a few weeks ago. At my follow up appointment, I was unsure if I wanted to have the left eye done, though I had, at the doctor’s suggestion, already scheduled it for the following week. “You can always cancel it,” he’d told me.
I debated the pros and cons with the tech for quite some time. Finally, she handed me a pad of paper.
“Close your left eye and look at this,” she said.
I did.
“What color is it?”
“White,” I said.
“Ok, now close your right eye and look at it,” she said. “What color is it?”
My jaw dropped. “Whoa! It’s sepia!” I said.
I suddenly saw what I hadn’t even known I was seeing. Or not seeing.
So, the following week I had the second cataract surgery on my left eye.
A few days after that, my husband called me to the window. “Look at all the blue jays!” he said. “I’ve never seen so many together!”
I looked out the window at a dozen or more jays crowding the feeder, scattered across the lawn, and breaking off to fly up into the nearby trees. “Wow! They are so blue right now!” I said, wondering about the afternoon light and how it was creating that impression. Until I realized it wasn’t just the light, it was my “restored” vision. I sat for long moments drinking in the vibrant blues.
These days I perch on the edge of returning to school and its relentless pace, and I am also more and more aware that I am nearing the far edge of middle age. I ponder what I see in this world. And in my life. And the choices I have made and will make. I wonder what I haven’t seen. What blocks me from seeing. What I’m missing.
I keep wondering how I didn’t know what I wasn’t seeing. I imagine that the change was gradual, so I simply didn’t notice it. But it makes me think about how often we miss things with unintentional, unacknowledged blindness. About how changing a lens can make all the difference in the world.
I’ve been in resistance training. Or at least that’s what it feels like. Everyday I am actively working not to hear the increasingly loud and rapid tick… tock… ticktock… tickTOCK… TICKTOCK… TICKTOCK TICK TOCKTICKTOCK!!!!
AHHHHHHHHHH!
Ok….sorry about that. It’s just that August is here, fully entrenched and–OMG It’s the 18th already! That means August is actually almost half over…
AHHHHHHHHHH!
Oops! There I went again. This seems to be happening with increasing frequency! What I’m trying to get across is that I’m trying to live fully in each moment, resisting succumbing to the ever-increasing, inexorable pull of the great whirlpool of the impending school year…
but as each day passes, the closer it gets, and the stronger the pull. I am working frantically diligently to avoid future-thinking and immerse myself in the present and the remaining gift of free time. Occasionally, I’m successful, and often that’s with the help of time outside and with my camera. And lots and lots of reading. But, as that pool of time diminishes, it’s getting harder and harder.
To be clear, I really am looking forward to many aspects of returning to school (more so than in many past years), but the relentless pace is NOT one of them. I dread the constant rushrushrush with such limited time and energy remaining outside of school hours and responsibilities. Sigh.
So, I’m curious (desperate? lol). Can you throw me a lifeline? What do you do to keep things sane when you return to the hustle and bustle of another school year? Do you have a number one tip? Maybe a “school hack” to increase efficiency and productivity?
Do you remember that old Staples ad? It was a back-to-school ad that showed a parent gleefully throwing school supplies into a cart with two glum children following along behind them. While I’m not thrilled with the glum child aspect, I still think the ad was amusing. Take a peek to refresh your memory!
I’m pretty sure I look a bit like that parent whenever I am shopping for office supplies. I’m not sending any children off to school these days, but I’m an office supply addict! Pens, folders, notebooks? They’re my jam!
So, last week, with great anticipation, I went to Staples for the first time this summer. I walked in feeling the excitement grow. What would I find this year? I lingered in the aisles, picking up and putting down various items. Considering this. Considering that. I kept Investigating all my options. Black pens? Blue pens? Red pens? … All!!! I dumped multiple packages into my cart.
Next, I debated about crayons. I don’t usually have individual crayon boxes, but I’d been considering it. They were on sale… I did the math. I could always add them to the community bin if I didn’t want to use them individually. Decision made! Twenty boxes of crayons were added to my growing pile.
After making many more decisions, changing my mind, trying to remember what I’d already ordered, reconsidering, adding, removing, etc., I finally made my way to the counter to pay. I piled up my tower of crayon boxes alongside the other items.
“Whoa! That’s a lot of crayons!” a small voice piped up from behind me.
I turned from the counter to see a wide-eyed young boy, standing next to his grandmother.
“Are those all for you?!” he asked, eyes bulging.
“No,” I smiled at him. “I’m a teacher and these are for my classroom. Are you getting ready to go to school, too?”
He nodded, holding tightly onto his own teetering tower of supplies. “I’m in precool.”
“You were in preschool last year,” his grandmother corrected. “This year, you’ll be in Kindergarten.”
“I’m gonna be in Kindergarten,” he said.
“Oh,” I said. “I teach second grade. But Kindergarten is pretty awesome! Are you excited?”
“Yes,” he nodded enthusiastically.
After a moment, he looked up at me again. “Will you be there?”
Kids and office supplies…best combo ever! No wonder I love being a teacher! 🙂
In her typically generous fashion, Georgia Heard has begun to share monthly writing prompt calendars. For July she created a “Month of Tiny Letters.” Each day offers an invitation to write a tiny letter. Yesterday’s prompt was “Send love to your tired self.”
Dear Tired Self, A nap is a gift – not an indictment.
Lean in. Close your eyes. Let the hammock gently rock you into easy dreams.
Three days. Two naps in the hammock. I’m doing something right!
After a fairly frenetic start to summer, I’m still struggling to find my summer rhythm. So far it’s mostly eluded me. I had all sorts of good intentions about getting back into a blogging routine, but once again, a few weeks have passed since I’ve posted.
In the last couple of days, inspired by On Being’s “The Hope Portal”, I’ve been trying to focus on finding “moments/sightings/experiences that bring flashes of light into your day.” I’ve also been trying to get a sort of routine in place–writing, walking, photography, etc. Yesterday morning I forced myself to take a walk, and found, as one usually does, a glimmer of joy.
After a bit of a writing dry spell, I wanted to write about making jam today. It’s a subject I’ve visited before (here and here and even once in the Portland Press Herald.) and no doubt will again. So, I pulled up my blog this morning, determined to write and to get back into blogging more regularly. I knew it had been a while since I had written, but I was shocked to see that my last post was at the end of May! That’s more than two months ago! 1/6 of a year!! How can time pass so quickly? (Update: My husband has informed me that my math skills are a bit off, and this is closer to one month than two. I’m not sure whether to feel better or not! lol)
I’ve been thinking about time a lot lately. Perhaps it’s prompted by the arrival of summer, which is always jarring in a teacher’s life, or perhaps it’s where I am in my own life, and where my loved ones are. It’s also been a common theme in books I’ve been reading. Time passing. It’s our one true constant, isn’t it?
I’ve been considering how the nature of time changes–how on some days, time visits you in a leisurely way, curls around you and tucks you into its slow unfolding, and on other days it whips past, barely seen, leaving you breathless in its wake. Most days it falls somewhere in between.
Perhaps that’s why traditions, like jam making, matter so much to me. They’re like small anchors in the tide of time. Or maybe small flags of proclamation. Jam making literally feels like a way to capture time in a bottle, to savor at a future time of your choosing. Ray Bradbury says it best, when writing about dandelion wine in his book of the same name:
“And there, row upon row, with the soft gleam of flowers opened at morning, with the light of this June sun glowing through a faint skin of dust, would stand the dandelion wine. Peer through it at the wintry day – the snow melted to grass, the trees were reinhabitated with bird, leaf, and blossoms like a continent of butterflies breathing on the wind. And peering through, color sky from iron to blue.
Hold summer in your hand, pour summer in a glass, a tiny glass of course, the smallest tingling sip for children; change the season in your veins by raising glass to lip and tilting summer in” ― Ray Bradbury, Dandelion Wine
(After reading Bradbury’s writing again, it’s hard to continue writing this piece. What a master he is!)
At any rate, last summer we traveled extensively and I missed strawberry season entirely. This winter I found myself buying jam for the first time in years. I think I bought every flavor except strawberry, and I admit it was fun to have some variety. Still, this year I hoped to make jam again. As we moved further into June, I trawled through the local U-pick farm’s FB posts, eagerly searching for updates. Finally, after days of tantalizing “Soon!” posts and pictures of dangling berries, there it was:
Today’s the day!!! Opening Day for strawberry u-pick season!!
FB photo from Fairwinds Farm, Bowdoinham, Maine
The post appeared on Monday night. The fields were opening the following morning, which was the last day of school, and also the Tuesday before out-of-town visitors arrived and we hosted a party for 100ish people at our home. Over the following days, no matter how I juggled, there was simply no time for picking and jam-making. Things were starting to look grim on that front.
Once the party (such fun!) was over, visitors remained, and then the fields were closed for heat waves and then rainfall. There were sad commentaries about unfruitful harvests. But fear not, Dear Reader! For on this past Sunday morning, the grey clouds looked blanketing, not threatening. Temperatures were not supposed to rise into heat advisory zone. The local farm’s Facebook page said picking was light to moderate, but they were optimistically opening for the day. I set out for the fields first thing.
Picking strawberries tends to be a layered experience for me, and that morning was no exception. I crouched in my chosen row, avoiding puddles, searching for berries. A veery called repeatedly from nearby shrubs. Two cat birds swooped and dove nearby. As always, I listened to the voices drift over the fields from other pickers. Most people were in small groups or partnerships. I used to pick with my mother-in-law and children, but in recent years, due to distance and scheduling, I’ve been picking alone, steeped in memories.
Berry picking is a treasure hunt. This year it felt especially so, as the berries were smaller and fewer in quantity. Every so often I stumbled upon a patch of glowing red berries, but more often I was brushing aside damp leaves, searching for hidden ones. Sometimes I was rewarded. Sometimes not. But bit by bit, my green cardboard quart baskets filled up. Eventually I was finished picking and I headed home to make jam.
There was no rush. I had nowhere to be. No pending commitments. Just a morning free to pick berries and make jam.
Still, soon enough, I found myself hurrying, thinking about being done and not so much about doing. After months of crazy to-do lists, I’m working really hard to catch myself when I’m not being in the moment, not experiencing and appreciating it as it unfolds. I’m working to switch gears, to lean into the moment at hand, and not think ahead to the next thing, or the next step. So, on this day, I caught myself rushing, and then deliberately slowed down.
Walking out to the back yard to harvest rhubarb, I focused on the damp weight of the encroaching vegetation against my legs. I felt the gentle scrape of the massive leaves against my hands as I parted them and reached low into the plant. Heard the snip of scissors cutting through each ruby stalk and the subsequent tree fall of it timbering over. Back in the house, I focused on the flow of water over my hands as I washed each stalk. The crisp slice of the knife. The gathering pile of chopped pieces on the scarred cutting board. Then the hulling of each strawberry and the soft thunk as it landed atop the growing heap in the large, white bowl. The sticky red coating my fingers. The soft squishy sounds of mashing berries together, and the rush of juices. I savored the grit of sugar against my finger as I swept it across the top of the measuring cup. Watched it spill into the pot. Marveled at how the color transformed and intensified. Heard the steady thump of the spoon as I stirred, and the eventual gentle burble of a rolling boil. The heavy scent perfumed the kitchen.
All these sensations intermingled with reminiscences of previous jam making adventures with my mother in law and my children. Even as I tried to stay in the present, grounding myself in sensory experiences and willfully turning away from the tug of the future, the past slipped in. I welcomed it. Rather than undermining the moment, it enriched it. I lingered in the sweetness of memories of collaborative berry picking and jam-making. As I worked, I smiled, remembering how a couple of years ago, my youngest daughter and I spontaneously began to recite Bruce Degen’s “Jamberry” in the fields as we picked:
One berry, two berry, pick me a Blueberry ! Hatberry, Shoeberry in my Canoeberry; Under the bridge and over the dam, Looking for Berries – Berries for Jam !
Finally, at the end of this morning, the jam jars lined the island. Row after row. I cleaned up the kitchen as they cooled, somehow enjoying the wash-up as an extension of the creation. I wiped away streaks of strawberry from the counters and scrubbed sticky remnants of jam from spoons and pots. As I worked, every so often one of the jars emitted a soft sealing clink. One of the best sounds ever!
Later, as the day drew to a close, I stacked the jars of cooled jam in the wooden pantry. I admired the soft glow of berries through the quilted jars, and anticipated savoring their flavor on dark winter days.
To an outside observer, this was a solitary endeavor. One moment in time. I know, though, that it was so much more than that. Picking each berry, washing, cooking, cleaning and bottling filled my morning. But making jam on this particular Sunday also, somehow, transcended time. It united past and present, and fused them together into a glorious, sweet preserve–one I know I will savor as time and the seasons pass.
Nix the comfort zone 